Sitting in the basement
Two friends were fairly wasted
With an idea, both of them could taste it
So they decided they would make it

They tried to pull up the internet
With a computer not even turned on yet
So they smoked another doobie and
Came up with a master plan

When the internet finally did come on
They Googled how to make an "H" bomb
They giggled like silly teenage girls
Cause the knew they'd be rulers of their world

They wish they'd studied more in school
This "H" bomb language wasn't written for simple fools
So they called up someone smart they knew
They called Bob

Well Bob was just right down the street
Always there to help a friend in need
Even came with his own bag of ****
Bob is a good friend indeed

After an hour or so they tried to explain
What they needed from good ole what's his name
But couldn't remember why it was he even came
I guess **** just made the world a safer place

If I start to write a poem, will I finish it this time
Or will I give up midway through, because there aren't enough rhymes
In this old dreadful, awful language born of brutal feudal swine
Wearing wigs and pantaloons, and saying words like 'thee' and 'thine'?

If I have a hazy thought, will I succeed in making clear,
That murky bit of intuition felt, or will it disappear,
The minute I put ink to paper and begin to toy around
With all the scattered bits of insight that implicitly abound?

If I find myself inspired all the sudden by a muse,
Will she hastily retire before I can spread the news
Of all her wondrous gifts to me, that I so luckily did capture
In a transcendental state of exaltation, joy, and rapture?

If I have a vivid vision, flowing freer than the stream
Of a river, clear as crystal, and as dazzling as a dream
Will my will be of such power that I'll succeed to convey
It, or just fall flat in defeat and then retreat into dismay?

If I see sumptuous fruits that hang atop the mighty tree
That's down the road of human intellect and creativity
Will my reach extend sufficiently to gather them and bring
Them back into...into... oh, **** it! I can't think of anything.

                                                (╯°□°）­╯︵ ┻━┻

Spring-loaded,
Nervous energy;

Often wondering
In an archer, a yogi-
Gathering static strength,
A tension
With the potential
Of absolution;

Else a stopwatch wound
Too tight. A pointless climb,
An effortless demise-
Out of time,
Out of mind.

Cannot walk slow.
Baulk beneath
The cathedral,
Lengthening of the shadow;
Another wasted day.

Often wondering
if idle or incomplete,
Whether the chip
On my shoulder
Is a flute
Or a fatal malady.

Managed the cap and gown
With a professional smile.

Found my audience
When I gave it up.

Often wondering
What I am doing,
Sat drunk at the typewriter
Alone;

Often wondering
Which is more fearful;
the void
Or the comfort of home.

Disdain for
Traditional forms,

A sense of
Detached irony,

Self-reflexivity,
Expressed as a

Flagrant,
Meta-textual
Awareness,
                                        ­        

                                          adventurous
                                          typography,
                                              

                ­                                                     that defies
                                                                ­     the common
                                                          ­           relational schemes
                                                         ­            between text
                                                                ­     and margin



The juxtaposition
Of words
Governed by
Syllabic content,

and
       freed
                from
                         the
                               burden
                                            of
                                               syntactical
                                                     ­             strictures

Meanings
Changed
Through
Inversion

(now read it upside down)

                                                         ­  
                                                             ­       the
                                                                ­    poem
                                                                ­    recites
                                                                ­    itself

Paralyzed truth
Mimics brave fear,
Abdicating censure, and
Redressing allusion,
                                                       ­       

                                                               Liberation
                                                                abounds
                                                                in the trough
                                                                of a sine wave

How exquisite was her shape
How flawless her form
Only on special occasions should such beauty be worn.
Every millimeter within her frame enhanced my view of God's wonderful creation
From the baby blue earth sky and the forest green of nature, to every long and frustrating paper I had to write.
She was there... captivating and processing every image from the back of my brain.
That was until I broke my precious frames.

Sort of xylophone trumpity music

"Space, the final front ear..
These are the voyages of the star ship Compromise,
it's five or six year mission: to explore strange new worlds
or just look at them from the safety of the Captain's bridge.
To seek out new life and new civilizations.. or not.
To boldly go where no man..
or woman or person or ummm.. cat .. has gone before..

que wirly singy music and twirl about the living room*

Or we could just stay at home, playing Pokemon go.. ?
either way i'm good.

@===#

The arms of the trees
Pluck a banjo for the man
Hid on his knees
His Instrument's fan

Sets the stars a-twinklin'
If you have a chance
Watch the clouds dosey doe
Watch mountains dance

A saguaro he plays on
The spoons and the saw
The wind blows at tune
On harmonica!

Brighter than street lights
Moonbeams cut like a knife
Head like a melon
Larger than Life

Yep... the moon plays a banjo
Orion the fiddle
Owls they play metal string
The cat's in the middle

Playin' the drums
Just as loud as you please
Yep... the moon's playin' banjo
With the arms of the trees!


SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/18/2016